Silent Night
by Dunnage41
Summary: For Henry and for Jo, Christmas means extra work and painful memories.


Monday, December 21

Henry Morgan was rigid with outrage. His face was white, but his eyes shone with unmistakable disgust. He snapped out his words as if biting them off, lips curling back with every syllable. Though his voice was quiet, the effect was much more intimidating than if he were bellowing.

"Taceant colloquia. Effugiat risus," Henry snapped. "Hic locus est ubit mors gaudet succurrere vitae." He pointed to the small plaque hung above one of the windows in the lab. "Let idle talk be silenced. Let laughter be banished. Here is the place where Death delights to succor life." He sighed. "The motto of virtually every morgue and pathology laboratory and medical examiner's office, including this one. 'Let idle talk be silenced. Let laughter be banished.'"

He turned his glare from the plaque back to the security officer, who was losing his earlier air of defiance. "This office," Henry continued, "has as its first rule a guiding policy of respect – respect for the bodies we have the responsibility to handle; respect for the people they once were; respect for their families and others affected by their death. That is understood to be an absolute prerequisite for employment with this office."

Outside the glass doors of Henry's office, Lucas bounced in, a cheerful greeting on his lips, which died as Lucas stuttered to a halt. He took in the scene: Dr. Morgan looking like the wrath of God, and the night security guard looking like he was being hit by a truck. He very quietly sidled to the wall, where he could watch the scene unfold without attracting attention to himself.

Henry took a deep breath and sighed before continuing. "Moreover, you signed a binding contract with this office. In exchange for your continued employment, you would not" – here he picked up a form from his desk and read something highlighted on it – " 'handle any body for which the OCME is responsible except as required for the performance of your duties, and always with respect.' You also" – his eyes skipped down to the next highlighted part – "agreed that 'photography is prohibited except as in the performance of the duties of the OCME. No employee may take photographs of himself or herself, co-workers, or aspects of the laboratory except as in the performance of the duties of the OCME.' And lastly you… ah, here we are… agreed that 'nothing related to or occurring within the OCME may be placed on any social media platform by any employee of the OCME except at the discretion of the Chief Medical Examiner in the performance of his duties.'"

Henry looked back up at the security officer, who was now looking at his own feet. "Look at me!" Henry barked, and the young man jumped, then guiltily met Henry's gaze.

Jo Martinez strode in, and, like Lucas, was transfixed at the sight of Henry well and truly furious.

"Psst," Lucas hissed. Jo joined him along the wall.

"I'm not sure what's going on," Lucas whispered, "but that's Jordan McCollin, the night security guard."

Jo stifled a smile. "Not for long."

"Heaven only knows what possessed you," Henry continued, "to print out crude and scatological sayings, place the paper on the bellies of corpses, and photograph the results. To have done so was utterly unacceptable and a clear violation of two of the articles of your contract. But it now appears that on Friday evening, you posted one of these photographs to your … Facebook … page." Henry's disdain was unmistakable.

"As it happens, someone whose loved one has only recently been in one of our freezers saw the photograph and was understandably upset at the prospect that your model might have been his mother."

"It wasn't—"

Henry cut him off. "And that person, who apparently has the influence to do so, phoned the mayor – not his office, mind you, not on a Friday evening – phoned the mayor personally on his mobile phone to complain. I may well lose my job. That's part of what I do, is bear responsibility for everything that goes on in this office. Your continued employment, however, is not in question."

He took a deep breath. "You. Are. Dismissed."

"Hey," the guard protested. "You can't just fire me. Not from a city job. There's a process. And besides – I only shot the torsos. There's nothing identifiable in the pictures."

Henry held up the contract again. "It appears, Mr. McCollin, that you failed to read this binding contract before signing it. Violation of any of the terms of this contract may result in immediate dismissal. Identification notwithstanding, I am responsible for what goes on in the office of the chief medical examiner, and I will not allow the presence in this laboratory of anyone who fails to show respect for what we do here. 'Let idle talk be silenced. Let laughter be banished,' Mr. McCollin. The world affords a multitude of opportunities for laughter and idle talk – including your Facebook. I suggest you take your penchant for amusement somewhere appropriate."

Henry turned his back, but the guard stayed frozen in place. Henry turned around. "You're fired, Mr. McCollin. Good day."

The guard shuffled out of Henry's office as Jo stuck her head in. "Hey. Henry. Did you just, uh, fire someone?"

Henry looked up sharply, his indignation still stoked. Only gradually did his face and posture relax and his brain register that it was not the errant guard but Jo who was in the room.

"Detective Martinez. Good morning," Henry said. "Yes, that is a former night security guard. It turned out that he favored printing out crude statements, placing them on the bellies of corpses, and taking pictures. Bad enough, certainly, but then he was foolish enough to post one of the pictures on Facebook. Someone whose loved one was recently in our care saw the picture and phoned the mayor. Personally, on his mobile phone, on Friday evening." He sighed. "I may lose my job."

"It's not your fault," Jo pointed out.

"No… but this office is my responsibility."

Jo crossed her arms. "So … what did it say?"

"What, the one on Facebook? 'That's what she said.' I fail to see the humor – but I'm not a Facebook aficionado." He shook his head briskly. "But I'm sure that's not why you came."

"Ah, no," Jo said. "We've got—"

Lucas opened the door. "Dr. Morgan? The mayor for you."

Henry rolled his eyes. "That didn't take long. I'll take it in here, Lucas."

"Um, nope." Lucas jerked his head. "I mean, the mayor. For you." Henry looked up to see the topcoat-clad figure of the mayor striding through the lab.

Henry closed his eyes. This was going to be a long day. Jo tiptoed out.

"Good morning, Your Honor," Henry managed. "Henry Morgan." He held out his hand. "Please, have a seat."

"Thank you." Bill de Blasio shook the offered hand, slid out of his coat, and sat down. He crossed his legs and fixed Henry with a look.

"I trust you're aware of why I'm here."

"I am, Your Honor. And first may I offer my most sincere apologies? The behavior exhibited by an employee of this office is utterly unacceptable, a gross violation of our practices and policies, and a demonstration of the basest disrespect to the bodies of the individuals it is our responsibility and our privilege to handle. I am appalled—"

De Blasio held up a hand. "Glad to hear it. For the moment, though, let's stipulate our mutual dissatisfaction with the actions of this individual. I need you to tell me what happens next. What consequences do you intend to pursue?"

"I have dismissed him. As of just a few moments ago. And I would have done so earlier had he not been unreachable on his mobile phone and not present at his residence over the weekend. I made no fewer than eleven phone calls and seven personal visits attempting to locate him." Henry paused and forced himself to slow his breathing.

De Blasio nodded. "That's good. That's good. Firing him is certainly the first step. I'll give you temporary access to a protected database, and you can add his information, so that his name will come up as ineligible for any other city employment. Meanwhile, though, I've got a constituent who wants heads on a platter. What are we gonna do?"

It occurred to Henry that the question was rhetorical: they mayor almost certainly had a plan.

"What do you suggest, Your Honor?"

De Blasio looked at Henry steadily. "I suggest that you and I meet with this individual this afternoon at City Hall. I suspect a chance for him to express his dissatisfaction in person might appease him."

The mayor rose and put his coat on. "And Dr. Morgan…"

Henry looked up.

"We'll have the city attorney with us in the meeting." 

"Yes, Your Honor," Henry replied, and de Blasio was out of the office before the implications struck Henry. The city attorney was usually acting for the OCME, when it needed an attorney. But if he would be in the meeting representing the city – in this case, the OCME would potentially be the city's adversary. Henry would need his own lawyer.

In the car, Jo listened patiently as Henry explained everything.

"Ultimately, the responsibility is mine," Henry said with a sigh. "Up to and including my job, the office of the chief medical examiner is my responsibility."

"It's bullshit that you should lose your job because an employee…"

"Ex-employee." It was rare for Henry to interrupt, and Jo was taken aback by the acid in his tone.

"Ex-employee did something stupid."

"I know," Henry said, his shoulders slumping. "I suppose a lot depends on just whom this influential citizen is. And I won't know that until this afternoon."

At the scene, after a quick word to Hanson, Jo walked a few yards off and dialed a number on her cell phone. Henry pronounced the death a probable suicide, Hanson took notes, and Jo gestured to Henry to get back in the car.

She glanced at her watch. "It's eleven-forty-five. The meeting at the mayor's office is set for twelve-thirty."

"How on earth do you know that?"

"Because," Jo said matter-of-factly. "I've lined up an attorney for you."

And with that, she wheeled the car around in a U-turn, steering an astonished Henry to a restaurant. "You're going to need something to eat."

"I can't, Jo." Henry waved a hand. "I've no appetite."

"Henry, trust me. Look, you're a doctor, you have to know that it's a bad idea to go into a meeting like this on an empty stomach."

"And you didn't…" Henry stopped himself, swallowed his words, and started again. "Thank you. For arranging for an attorney." Part of him prickled with resentment that she judged him incapable of doing that for himself, but the more reasonable portion of his mind prompted him into a somewhat more gracious response. So long as he was the chief medical examiner, even if that was for something less than an hour more, he would be working with the homicide detectives. It certainly behooved him to be civil. Moreover, he had to, if somewhat reluctantly, acknowledge that he had recognized the need for an attorney but not acted on it.

Jo finally talked Henry out of the car and into a diner, and ordered for him: pea soup, a roll, a cup of coffee, even a slice of pecan pie.

"I do feel better," Henry admitted afterward. "And thank you again for lining up an attorney. I simply couldn't think clearly." He had been so closed in on himself for so long, he was unaccustomed to accepting help for anything from anyone. He felt his natural self-protectiveness begin to unfold, begin to loosen its grip on himself. It frightened him.

"It's okay to need an occasional assist, Henry," Jo said mildly. "I can't sit in on the meeting – but you'll have an ally in the room." She patted Henry on the shoulder as he unbuckled his seat belt and stepped out of the car in front of City Hall.

Henry felt that pat, through the cloth of his overcoat, through the shoulder of his suit coat, down to the bone, as he mounted the steps that felt ominously like a gallows.

Outside the conference room, a neatly dressed man of about fifty, wearing a dark blue suit, extended his hand. "Dr. Morgan? I'm Broderick Chastain. Detective Jo Martinez requested me to provide my services as counsel today."

Henry shook hands automatically.

"We have about five minutes before we have to go in there," Chastain said. "Shall we?" He gestured to the men's room.

Henry absently fiddled with his watch chain as he told Chastain the story. Chastain shook his head. "A lot's gonna come down to who this guy is and how much influence he has on the mayor," he said. "Okay, let's go."

Henry drew a deep breath to steady his nerves. He really did not want to have to run again. He surveyed the room. Bill de Blasio. The city's attorney. And …

"Dr. Morgan, Conrad Carlyle," the mayor said. Carlyle drew his leonine head back in surprise, and Henry's arm froze halfway into the handshake position. He felt the blood drain from his face. His knees actually trembled.

Both men stared at each other for a very long moment – long enough for Henry to hear his blood thundering in his ears and wonder abstractly if he were going to faint – and then, as if in slow motion, Carlyle extended his own hand. Surprised, after a moment Henry finished extending his, and the two shook hands. De Blasio watched with dawning knowledge.

"The death of your mother," he said, and then his eyebrows went up. Carlyle's mother had died several months ago. It simply wasn't possible for the body in the unfortunate Facebook post to have been Gloria Carlyle. De Blasio was both irritated at Carlyle's hyperbole, though it was usual for the patrician with deep pockets, and hugely relieved, imagining vividly the furor if the body actually had been that of Gloria Carlyle, on top of the mess that was already brewing.

"Dr. Morgan, I expect you know Francis De Holley, the city's attorney," de Blasio said. "And…"

"Broderick Chastain, Your Honor," Chastain said. "Representing Dr. Morgan."

"I'm sure there's no need for that," Carlyle drawled.

De Blasio glanced at him. "Gentlemen, if you will be seated."

"So my job is safe, at least for the moment," Henry told Abe that evening over dinner. "Mr. Carlyle actually thanked me afterward for determining his mother's cause of death."

Abe snorted. "Maybe he's seeing a therapist."

Henry chuckled. "I seriously doubt that." He raised his glass. "To … ah, to Conrad Carlyle." The look on Abe's face put Henry in a better mood than he had been all day.

It didn't last.

Tuesday, December 22

"Every year," Lucas said, shaking his head. "The holiday drinking season starts earlier and earlier."

"We're done," Henry said, peeling off his gloves. "Cause of death, automotive impact with a telephone pole. Contributing proximate cause, alcohol consumption."

"Fa-la-la-la-la," Lucas caroled, trailing off when he saw Henry's expression.

The drunk driver was just the beginning.

"We need a revolving door," Lucas said, wheeling in yet another corpse. "What is this, the fourth one today? That's, like, insane."

"Fortunately, Lucas, many of the people we will see this week will likely have rather obvious causes of death," Henry said.

"Yeah, death by family gathering. Sorry… sorry," Lucas added.

"In a way, though, Lucas is right," Henry told Jo, though choosing a moment when Lucas was out of the room. "Put a dozen or more people in a house or apartment that usually holds … say, four. Add several children wound up with new toys and cookies and the excitement of seeing their cousins and having other children to play with. A generous dollop of alcohol for the adults, a sprinkling of long-held resentments; stir well and simmer with a dash of noise levels. When it's simmered for about three hours … add a firearm."

Jo shrugged. "Makes it simpler. For us and for you."

"Yeah, I got to see my kids before bedtime yesterday," Hanson added. "They think it's Christmas already."

Jo rolled her eyes.

Wednesday, December 23

"That makes no fewer than four deaths by gunshot wound today," Henry said, peeling off his gloves and placing his hands on the small of his back. He leaned back, gently massaging the sacroiliac.

"Yeah, let's see," Lucas said. "Gunshot wound to the chest, gunshot wound to the neck, gunshot wound to the abdomen, gunshot wound to the … neck … that was weird … and another gunshot wound to the chest. And a partridge in a … yeah, never mind." Henry's look was scorching.

"And the bodies just keep on comin'," Hanson added, as he and Jo strolled in. "Ready for a change of pace, Doc? This one's a real winner."

"Yeah, found him in a bag," Jo said.

"Was the victim subdued in any manner?"

"We don't know," Hanson said. "Waitin' on you."

At the scene, Henry instructed officers to photograph the shallow depression where the body had been found, as well as the mound of dirt that had covered it.

"A thin material," Henry noted of the bag, "like cheesecloth." He untied the string of the bag and carefully eased the bag open. Jo and Hanson peered in, then, wearing identical expressions of shock and disgust, drew back.

"Jeez, Doc, what the hell," Hanson exclaimed, squatting by Henry's left side.

Henry stared at the body, knees bent, hands tied, and the hands shackled to its ankles, all bound with heavy twine. It was only vaguely identifiable as a human figure: the outer skin appeared to have been peeled away, leaving a raw-looking subdermal layer.

Henry drew a scalpel from his jacket's breast pocket and very gently probed the skin. Finally he straightened. "This man has been cooked," he said.

"Cooked?" Hanson and Jo asked in unison.

"Yes. Boiled, to be exact. And …" Henry drew the bag lower down, exposing a largish branch stuck into a rough cut made in the chest. The branch bore distinctive glossy green leaves and small red berries.

Henry straightened up and replaced the scalpel. He peeled off his gloves.

" 'If I could work my will,' " he quoted, " 'every idiot who goes about with "Merry Christmas" on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart.' " Feeling Hanson's stare, he added loftily, "Charles Dickens' classic story 'A Christmas Carol.' Very seasonal."

"You mean…" Hanson said, his mouth hanging open.

"Yes, detective. This man was boiled as if he were a Christmas pudding, and buried, although in a very shallow grave, with a stake of holly through his heart. The holly was added postmortem," he said.

"What is wrong with people?" Hanson asked, his favorite rhetorical question.

"If we're lucky," Henry said, "the killer was merely feeling, ah, the spirit of Christmas. If not, this is the start of a serial killer working from Dickens novels. Railway accidents, hangings, stabbings, drownings… oh, dear," he added involuntarily, prompting Jo to smother a smile.

"Boiled," Hanson added with a shudder.

Back at the lab, Henry confirmed the cause and manner of death, unmistakably a homicide, and one that would be quite a bit harder to solve than most this week. He paused for a quick cup of terrible coffee – nothing like Abe's nectar – changed his gloves and resumed. The three hours it had taken him to autopsy the Christmas pudding body meant that another four bodies were now awaiting him.

It was one-thirty in the morning, long after Henry had sent Lucas home, that Henry wearily threw himself into his desk chair for a nap. When Henry awoke, stiff and grouchy, at four o'clock, two more bodies were already waiting for him.

Thursday, December 24

"Lucas." Henry glanced at the clock. "Take your lunch break. It's a quarter to two."

"I'm fine," Lucas started to say. Henry fixed him with a look.

"You're an hourly employee, Lucas. By law you are required to take a lunch break. We could both get in very serious trouble if you don't devote at least thirty minutes to your sandwich and your comic."

"Graphic novel," Lucas said automatically, but he obediently peeled off his gloves. Henry sighed, and carried the brain in his hand over to the scale. A few pounds of soft, grayish-pink matter, he thought, bears responsibility for so much of human history. Sublime symphonies by Beethoven; the childish megalomania of Napoleon; the dedication of physicians burying the dead during the Black Plague. Strippers and saints, policemen and prostitutes, gangsters and guards – all governed by the same stuff. And now this victim's brain was a lump of inert matter, and a lifetime of memories, thoughts, wishes, dreams, regrets, images, smells and sensations – all were gone in an instant, in the length of time it took for a bullet to stop the actions of the heart.

He shook his head, blinking perspiration out of his eyes. Seven bodies already, and the end of the day – and the end of the parade of bodies – was nowhere in sight. He glanced up to see Jo striding toward the table.

"Detective Martinez. Good afternoon," Henry said, smothering a yawn. "Where is Detective Hanson?"

"He has off this afternoon and tomorrow," Jo said. "He's got kids. I volunteered."

Henry didn't say what he was thinking, but his face did.

"In the mood for Chinese?" Jo asked. "We've got a death in Chinatown."

Once they were in the car, Jo glanced over. "Henry, when's the last time you got any sleep? You look terrible. And I mean that in the nicest possible way."

"Thank you, Detective," Henry said dryly. "I'm fine."

He wasn't, but Jo knew better than to debate the subject.

"So this machine they use to make egg rolls exploded," Jo said. "One of the blades went flying and cut off a worker's arm. He survived. He's in the emergency department at St. Vincent's as we speak. But the main cylinder of the machine, which was huge, apparently crushed this other guy."

"Why are these people here?" Henry muttered, stopping in his tracks and gazing uncomfortably at forty or fifty factory employees, all Chinese, all standing with hands clasped and heads lowered. "Can we get them out of here?"

"We've tried," a uniformed officer murmured. "They're paying their respects. They won't leave until the body leaves the premises."

Henry sighed, then proceeded. It was something of a challenge to examine a body crushed by a large machine part, but once he had verified the man's actual death, and enough photographs had been taken, he was able to ask for the machine part to be lifted away. Several of the workers turned pale and averted their eyes even further at the sight of the large amount of dried blood.

One of the workers approached hesitantly, hovering by the medical examiner who was squatting over the body. Henry, sensing her presence, straightened up, grimacing as his lower back seized. God, he was tired. His eyes felt gritty and his temples throbbed.

"Nandao ta shouku?" the worker whispered, eyes pinned on his shoes.

Henry shook his head.

"Bu, feichang kuai," he said. The worker bowed. Henry bowed, then returned to the body.

Once arrangements had been made to return the body to the OCME and they were back in the car, Jo turned to Henry.

"How many languages do you speak?"

Henry smiled wearily. "A few phrases in several languages. Including today's exchange: 'Did he suffer?' 'No, it was very quick.'"

"Is it true?"

Henry shook his head. "Unfortunately not. He would have remained alive for several minutes while he bled to death. A very painful way to die."

Jo let a pause develop, then asked, "So … what are you doing for Christmas?"

"Ah, nothing," Henry said, surprised. He felt the surprise on Jo's face and amended his answer. "We, ah, generally keep Christmas quietly," he said. "Some music, a good red wine…"

Jo smiled sadly. "You know why I volunteered to be on duty?" she asked. "Not just because Hanson has a wife and kids. It's also because … well …" she looked away, but not before Henry caught a glimpse of tears in her eyes.

His heart contracted. He wished desperately that Jo knew his secret. He wanted to tell her about Abigail … and even Nora … about how well he knew the pain of the first Christmas alone. How he had walked the streets of the city for hours, tears coursing down his face, heedless of the cold and of the looks from passers-by.

Instead he swallowed hard and looked out the window. The rest of the ride passed in silence, both wounded souls tending their grief and solitude.

Henry got out of the car on the sidewalk in front of the OCME. Jo put her window down. "Merry Christmas, Henry Morgan."

"Merry Christmas, Jo Martinez," Henry replied. He watched her taillights, then turned and trudged back inside.

At six-thirty, he sent Lucas home, shooing him out the door. At eight, he phoned Abe.

"Well, when will you be home?" Abe demanded.

"When I'm finished, Abraham." He sighed. "Look. These people don't want to be here on Christmas Eve any more than I do. I need to wrap them up and close their files. It's the least I can do. Signing off on someone's cause and manner of death on Christmas Eve is, I believe, marginally less painful to the families than signing off on Christmas Day. … I will. … Yes, you too. … I'll be home as soon as I can."

At two-fifteen in the morning, eyes burning, he sank into his office chair. Immediately, his head drooped toward his chest and his eyes fluttered shut.

The sound of a car crash on the street below woke him two hours later. He stood, stretched painfully, and shuffled to the break room to make a fresh pot of coffee.

Three bodies still waited, and two more came in during the day. Abe called. Henry promised.

At six o'clock in the afternoon he peeled off his gloves. If he hurried – if his aching and sleepless body let him hurry – he could be out of the office before any more bodies arrived.

He was too tired to hurry, but he made it to the street, and, after only four blocks managed to hail a cab.

"Stanton and Suffolk," he mumbled. "Lower East Side." Before the cabbie could drive off, though, a police siren burbled behind them. The door was yanked open.

"Henry. Come on." Jo Martinez jerked a thumb. "I thought I might find you here." She reached forward and gave the driver a twenty. "Merry Christmas."

"Abe called me," she said. "I'm taking you home."

"I'm leaving," Henry protested. "I had left the building. I was on the sidewalk. I had hailed a cab!"

"I told Abe I would get you home," Jo said, and this time Henry recognized the steel in her voice.

"Very well," Henry said, sinking into the passenger seat. "Thank you," he added, through an enormous yawn, one that felt as though he'd dislocated his jaw. In the moment it took to fasten his seat belt, his eyes closed of their own accord. He was so very tired that even though it felt good to close his eyes, it also stung a bit. It would take some time for the ache to ease.

With tremendous effort, he kept himself awake during the two-mile drive to the corner of Stanton and Suffolk. Abe was there, inexplicably wearing a Santa Hat.

"Henry," Abe scolded, love and exasperation mingling in his voice.

"I'm fine," Henry mumbled, but as he was virtually asleep standing up, the disclaimer was unconvincing. Jo helped Abe get him in the door and up the stairs, then waited on the faded red sofa while Abe got Henry down to his boxers and onto the bed. Henry was out before Abe could even drape a blanket over him.

Abe flopped onto the sofa and handed Jo a cut-crystal glass containing a generous shot of good whiskey, which Jo sipped appreciatively. Once or twice one of them began to speak, then stopped. It was six-thirty on the evening of Christmas day, and Henry Morgan was finally deep in some well-deserved sleep, and there was nothing to say, really.

"Merry Christmas, Abe," Jo said. "Thanks for the drink. Good night." She handed the empty glass back and Abe stood stiffly to see her out. He locked the door behind her, then stood watching the quiet street.

*Cause and manner of death as well as specific information about death by boiling and the death of the egg-roll factory worker are courtesy of the article "The most insane deaths seen by an NYC medical examiner," by Maureen Callahan, which appeared in the New York Post on August 3, 2014, and which was a feature article on Dr. Judy Melinek.


End file.
